


To Be Free

by nasimwrites



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cor and Aravis are strictly platonic, Courtship Customs, F/M, Golden Age (Narnia), The Pevensies stay a bit longer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26316784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nasimwrites/pseuds/nasimwrites
Summary: Uprooted in a time of transition, Aravis takes part in an unusual mission alongside a powerful partner.
Relationships: Edmund Pevensie/Aravis Tarkheena
Comments: 31
Kudos: 41
Collections: Narnia Fic Exchange 2020





	To Be Free

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ashling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/gifts).



Someone else was there, and no one was acknowledging the fact. That Cor—or anyone else, for that matter, but especially Cor—had thought that she would simply not notice royalty in the castle was, at best, naïve—and at worst, downright offensive. Who did he think supervised the logistics for everything and would definitely be aware of twice the amount of linens and meats and tea being shipped off to the royal wing of the castle?

To be fair, Aravis’ first suspicion had not been that it was Narnian Royalty, smuggled into the castle under her very nose. She had had a period of perhaps forty-eight hours where she was convinced that Cor had lost all sense of propriety and snuck in his Galmian betrothed over a month before the scheduled wedding—something she had known certain Lords to do, although she had certainly thought Cor above that—but that theory quickly dissolved when she dropped a few hints and his easily-flustered ears did not redden immediately.

So, no, it was not the Galmian Princess, although she continued to be on everyone’s minds as Cor’s wedding drew closer. But it was someone of equal importance if Cor had so much respect for them that he would keep their existence from her.

She figured it out only a few days later, of course. Taking breakfast at her bedroom window, watching the tall shadow of the castle fall across the lush summer lawn, she spotted movement over one of the towers, and looked up. Five Ravens hopped about, chatting amongst themselves.

She brought it up on at lunch while passing the potatoes to an unsuspecting Cor.

“You’re harboring a Narnian.”

Cor nearly choked, as she had expected—but it was Corin freezing out of the corner of her eye that stoked her irritation to anger. “You told _Corin_?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Corin interjected, too entertained by her annoyance to really be offended.

Cor cleared his throat. “How do you know about that? No one in court is supposed to know.”

“Except Corin, and however many servants it takes to feed a monarch and his entourage of Talking Beasts.”

Cor grimaced. “Look, Aravis—I wouldn’t have excluded you, but it was King Edmund’s express request that as few people as possible knew. The matter he’s tending to requires absolute secrecy.”

“If it helps, I did only find out by accident,” Corin offered, pouring gravy over his potatoes. “I was looking for my old saddle and found a King instead.”

“What is he doing?” Aravis asked. At Cor’s uncomfortable shrug, she stabbed her food with a little more ferocity than usual. “Well, tell him that his Ravens aren’t as subtle they think they are.”

But the issue nagged at her long after the conversation. King Edmund’s secret presence at Anvard was no trifling matter, no matter how Cor might try to brush it off. Edmund would not be in Archenland for nothing; he certainly hadn’t fallen out with Narnia—she would have heard something about it, and anyway he would have found plenty of better places to hide than Anvard scarcely a week before a massive wedding celebration. Neither was he spying on Archenland, if he was living in Anvard and not telling Cor about it.

He must be spying on Calormen, then. Anvard could offer that proximity; closeness with traders and a direct line to Tashbaan, if necessary. And it was interesting that Edmund had demanded Cor’s secrecy even within the royal family—particularly when the Lady of the house had once been Calormene herself.

And clearly, to everyone’s eyes, still was.

* * *

She found him in what had been Cor’s rooms four years ago, before King Lune had passed. It felt strange to stand at its threshold and see it lit and furnished again—although harboring a much different occupant.

King Edmund sat at the desk, poring over what seemed to be a pile of notes and letters. His dark hair was shorter than when she had last seen him, resting only just behind his ears. The white sleeves of his shirt were pushed up to his elbows. He was a slender man, but undeniably strong, and even in the intimacy of what was now his quarters, he commanded the room.

It occurred to her suddenly that she had never seen him outside of royal events, where he was known to be more of a spectator than a participant, although never impolite. She had exchanged polite words with him before, but not in such an informal setting—and certainly not without the presence of others… although now that she looked around, she saw a solitary Raven standing at the window.

The Raven saw her and a light clack of his beak alerted the King.

“Lady Aravis,” King Edmund said, startled out of his pensive stance and rising to his feet. “Forgive me; I was under the impression—”

“It’s not really possible to hide your presence from me, Your Majesty,” Aravis said, curtsying as rank demanded—but she held his eye the whole time. “Seeing as I oversee this household, and your entourage hasn’t been very stealthy.”

Edmund and the Raven shared an awkward glance. “My apologies. We simply wished to minimize our footprint, as we often do when we travel on sensitive business. It is rude, yes—but ultimately necessary, to avoid detection from suspect parties.”

“I understand,” Aravis replied. Her heart was beating very fast. After all, while Lune and Cor may have been used to her outspokenness, she didn’t know if that was the case with Edmund. Diplomacy was key—but so was self-respect. “But I must admit, I did not expect to be objectionable to the Narnian Crown, after so many years of service and allyship that disproves the iron grasp of my heritage. For what it’s worth, Your Majesty—I would have facilitated your mission, not betrayed it.”

Feeling rather shaken, she curtsied deeply again in the most blatantly Archen way possible—and left the room before Edmund could reply.

It was rash, yes; perhaps downright disrespectful. But if there was anything she had been able to count on in the past, it was that the Narnian Four would not impose upon her the same cruel, unthinking expectations so many in Archenland had. Edmund was a King of many decades; the greatest diplomat she had ever met. That Edmund had excluded her—and so unthinkingly—was far more offensive than Cor’s naivety.

* * *

_Women fade easily_ ¸ her stepmother had told her once. At the time, it had been a warning—to not fight or speak up too much, lest the jagged edges of her personality crumble and leave behind nothing womanly at all. _If you do not cling to what you have, the world will wash you away._

Her stepmother had tried to wash _her_ away, of course—arranging Aravis’ marriage to an older man who would undoubtedly have broken her will. But that was a sort of erasure one could fight; the one made out of jealousy, out of spite, out of manifest intent.

It was the unintentional erasure, the slow and unconscious one, that hurt the most. The expensive fabrics redirected from her rooms to those of the future Queen. The captains and cooks and housekeepers waving a hand and assuring her that soon she would not have to concern herself with any of these duties, as they would fall under the Queen’s supervision.

 _Cor will forget all about us now_ , Corin would joke, rolling his eyes at the elaborate hubbub of festivities. But then he would go off for a ride to the mountains with his friends from outside Anvard, and come back late at night none the wiser, while Aravis wrote invitations to Lords and Ladies across the country until her fingers hurt; walked the length of the entire castle ten times a day ensuring all furniture was where it was supposed to be; ensured everyone was bathed and clothed and excited.

King Lune had named her Lady of Archenland when she was still a child, citing the absence of his wife, his eyes twinkling as they always did. _It will be nice to have a Lady in the family again, and she would have adored you._

Now, she did not know what her title would be, or what she would do. And the handmaidens chattered about their excitement—about the large banquets and parties the Queen was likely to throw, about how nice it would be to finally have female royalty. To dress a woman with long, golden hair, and fair skin that could be dressed in pale Archen colors— _just as it should be_.

 _Women fade easily_ ¸ her stepmother had said. And as Aravis watched the sun rise over Anvard, she found herself clutching the windowsill until her fingers were white, hoping the morning breeze wouldn’t wash her away.

* * *

She had not meant to engage with King Edmund again, after that. After all, he was clearly embroiled in a mission and did not have the time nor will for diplomacy. And however confidently she may have presented herself to him, she had no intention of causing a wedge between Anvard and Cair Paravel—especially not on the brink of the greatest event of Cor’s life.

Which was why, when she awoke to an invitation from the Narnian King, she was surprised and suddenly apprehensive.

She was led to a small resting area in a secluded tower near his rooms, the window of which looked out to sea. He wore a deep blue tunic over a dark shirt this time, looking more like the man she normally saw at diplomatic events.

“This is where I’ve been taking breakfast,” he said, gesturing towards the cushioned seat across from him. The servant who had led her this way placed the tray of tea on a small table between them. “Please join me, if it does not interfere with your plans for this morning.”

“Not at all,” she replied, and spent perhaps a few more seconds than usual arranging her skirts as she sat on what was an undoubtedly comfortable seat—much too relaxing for such an uncomfortable situation.

He reached forwards and poured her a cup of tea with expert precision. She suddenly remembered what it was about King Edmund that simultaneously impressed her and filled her with unease—it was his ability to sit back in his chair drinking his morning tea, without an ounce of animosity in his face, but still convey a powerful sense of control. He was in command of the room, of its mood, of himself. And while he was soft-spoken and never cruel, she knew he could command her as well, if he wanted to.

It was the kind of intensity King Lune had only shown in the most dire crises, and that she had only seen in Cor directly in the aftermath of his father’s passing, when he had to take the reins of the kingdom. In Edmund, however, the feeling was constant.

“I wanted to clarify what I now realize was a terrible misunderstanding,” he said. “In hindsight, I see how what I thought to be a practical choice could be otherwise interpreted as a slight to a member of the Royal Family.”

“It’s not a matter of my personal feelings, Your Majesty.”

“Please, call me Edmund,” he said gently. “I know you call Lucy by her first name.”

She swallowed down the discomfort. “It’s not a matter of my personal feelings, _Edmund_. I would not feel slighted if it were a matter of practicality—even personality. I am not so childish. What I balk at is the widely-held assumption that, due to being of Calormene blood, I am inherently less trustworthy when it comes to business with Calormen—something that somehow does not apply to Cor; only to me.”

Edmund nodded grimly. “I wish I could reassure you that this was not the case, but this despicable attitude is unfortunately well-entrenched.” He sighed. “However, I am not only investigating Calormen.”

The cup of tea in her hands was cooling, but she could not bring her hands to move. Embarrassment washed over her—followed by self-learned righteousness. She may have been wrong, but she was not wrong to assume; not when her experience had proven her right, time and time again. “Who, then?”

“Sedition that is much closer to home. We heard reports of an alliance forming between important men from all three—Calormen, Archenland and Narnia. Both Archen and Narnian Lords are eager for new administration in Anvard, and Calormen is happy to stoke the flames.”

“Cor’s engagement has upset many. We advised him, when this all started, that a marriage alliance with a country as small as Galma would be nothing but trouble. So many Archen families were expecting a chance at the throne.” She sighed. “But Cor loves her, and it wouldn’t be right to deny him that joy.”

“No alliance is without its consequences,” Edmund agreed. He set down his teacup on the small table. “There are Narnian Lords, once from Archen families in the time of the Long Winter, who wish to manipulate the situation for their own benefit. They believe that if the political situation in Archenland grew chaotic enough, Narnia would be forced to step in.”

“And absorb us?”

“In theory.” He sighed. For the first time, concern washed over his face. “I worry at the timing of these rumors, with the upcoming wedding. Cor knows some of my misgivings, but this is ultimately Narnia’s responsibility. Anything Cor does now will be met with hostility from these people.”

“Do you know who they are?”

“Yes. That, at least, has been fruitful on this trip. But our goal is to neutralize the threat before we have a high concentration of diplomats all in one place—and I cannot simply appear in Archenland without alerting them that we know, which I fear could lead to even more sinister consequences for _both_ our nations. Settling all three factions will already be a challenge.”

Perhaps it was her memories of Calormene and her stepmother that brought a solution to her mind, but she did not say it out loud that morning. Instead, she finished her breakfast with King Edmund, looking over the sea and feeling her own plan stretch tendrils through her mind—a plant born out of frustration and uncertainty, ready to strike.

* * *

The Princess of Galma was due to arrive in a little over a week, along with the Galmian Royal Family and a massive entourage. With new furniture and supplies coming in from left and right, Aravis may not have noticed King Edmund’s presence—but now that she knew, the complications of having two separate sets of guests began to nag at her mind.

There would be wedding guests, of course, and that would mean that all four Narnian Kings and Queens would be present. But Lords and Ladies from all around Archenland were already making their way to Anvard, paying courtesy visits and lingering in nearly every courtyard to hear the latest news. Any change brought about new interests—most trivial, some sinister.

But despite slowly increasing levels of logistical chaos, Cor was all joy and smiles. It was truly adorable to see him so at peace and so in love—if a little bit frustrating, as Aravis’ anxiety began to increase. While Cor’s focus on celebrations made him particularly effective in replicating his father’s warm welcomes for guests, it made her feel a little mad with worry. The marriage was a bad political move, and it would have consequences. And as for Aravis…

“What will you have me do, after the wedding?” she asked Cor, in one of the few mercifully quiet moments they had: afternoon tea. Corin had spent the entire meal trying to get her opinion on a property he meant to buy near the border with Narnia, but she hadn’t felt like she could articulate a single thought.

Cor looked confused. “Nothing in particular. Her being here does not mean that anything has to change—besides a new seat at meals, of course.”

She almost smiled at his obliviousness. “You know that the Queen, traditionally, carries most of my responsibilities.”

“Then we will divide duties equally between you.”

“You can’t do that, Cor,” she snapped, frustrated. “She’s the Queen—you would be dishonoring her position.”

“You’re _family_ , Aravis,” he said, brow furrowed. “Do you think I’d be so horrible so as to discard you?”

He was sweet, but his optimism blinded him. Cor’s happiness meant her happiness, she tried to remind herself. But their friendship, regardless of their strong bond, was bound to change after his marriage.

She thought of Queen Lucy and Queen Susan, so confident and secure in their positions, able to do anything they wanted—to go anywhere and demand anything. Meanwhile Aravis—neither Queen nor commoner, with no blood relationship to Archenland, surrounded by a kingdom that would never quite accept her no matter what she did—would she never have a choice?

Still, she reminded herself, this was what she had always wanted: to be free from a marriage to an old man, and be surrounded by people who cared for her. The pains of being a Lady of Anvard did not compare to what her life might has been as the wife of a Grand Vizier.

* * *

The solution brought with it a conflicting dichotomy of emotions. In some ways, it felt like giving in to every assumption people had made about her, while simultaneously making a rather risqué ask of a very powerful monarch. But it was also thrilling—beyond anything she had been able to do in a very long time—and it could resolve everything.

So she went to visit King Edmund again.

The Ravens were there, but most scattered as she entered the room. Only one remained, and clacked her beak again in a way Aravis suspected was a greeting, followed by a kind of hopping bow. “Lady Aravis.”

“Sir Cornix,” she replied—for she had recently learned that she was one of Edmund’s Knights.

Standing by the window at Cornix’s side, King Edmund had the look of someone who had just had a very long day full of worries, although his posture remained upright and he smiled at her as she approached. It occurred to her that he had probably once been like Cor, too—young, nervous, unsure of his next step. The thought brought some resolve into her heart full of nerves.

“King Edmund.” There was no point in putting it off. “I have a solution to your predicament.”

“Please share it with us,” Edmund said, gesturing towards a seat. Aravis pretended she didn’t notice. She feared that if she sat down, she might lose her nerve. On the windowsill, Cornix’ beady eyes watched her unblinkingly.

“You need a reason to be in Anvard that doesn’t arise suspicion. You need to persuade your people—and ours—of the strength of Narnia and Archenland’s alliance.” She took a breath. “You need to court me.”

Edmund stared at her so long that she had to use all her Tarkheena upbringing to not fidget. Even as the words had left her mouth, she’d felt hyperaware of the few strands of silver scattered in his dark hair, just enough to make one wonder if they were a trick of the light; of his stature, over a head taller than her, with a strength to him that rivalled any of her younger suitors who had ever dared to ask for her hand; and of the power he held—far beyond anyone else she had ever spoken this openly with. What gall did she have, asking a man over a decade her senior to play charades with her in such an extreme way?

But Edmund was frowning—not angrily, but pensively. “That might work. But I would not presume to use you as a prop for my own plans.”

“Not a prop; an agent. I know everyone in court; we can put on an act that proves Narnia and Archenland’s close relationship, that illustrates our two kingdoms’ commitment to each other. And in our courting, as you come across some of these suspects, I can help bridge some of the cultural barriers, perhaps.”

“It is a good plan. But I don’t wish to disrespect you—”

“You won’t.”

Corvix ruffled her feathers. “And what happens when His Majesty leaves, and it appears that his offer has been rejected? I mean no disrespect, but it might appear to the people that Lady Aravis selfishly rejected a powerful alliance for the country.”

“Then the King rejects me,” she replied. “It has happened before. No one will think twice of it.”

Edmund shook his head. “I don’t wish—"

“I am not sensitive on these topics,” she said, gently. “I know I am past my expected wedding age, and my blood has been the source of much deliberation whenever the question of marriage arises. This is something I can finally leverage. Let me use it.” 

“This still could backfire,” Corvix said, and hopped onto the desk. “It must be analyzed more thoroughly. A perceived falling-out between you and the King could still encourage enemies on both sides to assume a weakening alliance.”

“Then say it was not me who rejected her,” Edmund interjected. His expression was focused, eyes alight with the appeal of a new plan. “Say that we wished to marry but my Royal Siblings intervened. The High King must marry first, and until he does so none of us shall.”

“That’s a ridiculous law, Your Majesty.”

“None of us will ever say it is a law—but the rumor will be enough to explain us being unmarried, while sidestepping scandal. And they will know that we will side with Cor regardless of whether we marry or not.”

“Who will be marrying?”

They turned to see Cor walking in, still in a good mood, if rather surprised at what he had just overheard.

The Raven answered politely before anyone could greet Cor. “King Edmund will _not_ be marrying Lady Aravis.”

* * *

Cor and Aravis threw a garden party. It was ostensibly for Cor, of course—in celebration of the guests who had arrived early for the wedding. But it was really for shock value, as Corin reminded her, hovering in the doorway as she submitted to her handmaid’s intricate curling and braiding.

“You have to look _radiant_ , Aravis,” Corin insisted with a grin. “Smiles and manners and _oh I_ adore _your tunic this day, King Edmund—_ ”

“Shut up.” She threw him the closest thing—which happened to be a hairbrush.

Corin dodged it like the boxer he was. “ _Oh Lord Darrin, have you tried the absolutely_ lovely _pastries from Cair Paravel?_ Edmund _just showed them to me…_ ”

“Go away,” she snapped, but he was making her laugh. As the handmaid left the room, Corin fanned himself daintily with her hairbrush and she rolled her eyes. “This is a serious mission to protect your brother; we have to take it seriously!”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t tease you about your handsome new lover.”

There _was_ a girlish part of her that felt an entirely different sort of nervous at the thought of being seen in court on King Edmund’s arm. She still remembered seeing him for the first time, so many years ago in Tashbaan when she was a young girl. She had been so small and scared, and he had been so tall and confident, in glittering armor and surrounded by other strong, beautiful figures. She had feared him at the time; now, she felt rather lightheaded at the thought of being one of the figures at his side.

Aravis had dressed for suitors before—Lords from Archenland, some traveling Tarkaans, and even, once, a Narnian Lord. Custom dictated that she should dress more festively in these situations, with flowers and golden ribbons in her hair, and luminous, flowing gowns. She didn’t care much either way, normally—but this time she looked into the mirror twice before she was sure she was satisfied.

The party was all bright faces and laughter under the summer sun, with garlands weaved around courtyard pillars and a truly stunning spread at the center of the garden. The herald announced her and Corin, and soon after Cor, and they mingled about with their guests for what felt like an achingly long time until the Narnian company arrived.

Having snuck out of the castle before dawn, Edmund now pretended to arrive in a much different fashion than he had left. No resident of Archenland could have missed him as he rode up to the castle in a cloud of Ravens, cloak streaming behind him in the wind, the Talking Birds bearing small gifts for Aravis.

Now, at the garden party, the herald’s announcement of _King Edmund of Narnia!_ caused the entire company to freeze. Edmund stepped forward into the light, Corvix hopping onto the grassy area behind him.

As per her role, Aravis was the first to step forwards to meet him, curtsying deeply and offering her hand. Behind her, she could hear the gasp of onlookers as they put two and two together. Aravis, thankfully, had the advantage of many years of faking a confident and dignified demeanor.

Edmund bowed, looking at her with a luminous face and rose her hand to his lips. His grip was firm, and as she looked up at him from under her lashes she could see the twinkling of amusement in his eyes—unseen to the rest of the crowd.

“Narnian courting can be rather overwhelming, you know,” he murmured, too low for the others to hear, as they straightened and made a beeline for shade, the body of party attendees parting before them, whispering. “Lots of shiny gifts from feathered friends, a ridiculous amount of fruits and berries. Quite a bit of dancing.”

“You’ve seen Calormene courting rituals firsthand, Your Majesty,” she said with a demure smile for the benefit of the crowd. “I don’t think you Narnians could scare me.”

His answering laughter was entirely sincere.

They lingered in the shade, sipping cold drinks and sampling sweet fruit—some of which Edmund’s entourage had brought as an offering for the event—and Edmund, ever so tactfully, pointed out the suspects in their midst.

Lord Gerbold was the first; a distant relative of Narnian Lords whose desire for more power than Anvard was willing to give him now came with a dislike of Cor’s youth and the upcoming nuptials to a country he deemed not powerful enough. The second was Lord Imdallen, once a Narnian soldier who now spent summers in Archenland, and who resented Anvard’s dependence on Cair Paravel. And the third was Arrak Tarkaan—a Calormene trader from Tehishbaan whose interests were suddenly seeming much more than just commercial.

“What do we do now?” Aravis whispered.

Edmund smiled—much too brightly, so it had to be for the charade—and reached for one of the bright white flowers in the tree beside him, handing it to her. “For you, my Lady.” As he bowed, he tilted his head towards Lord Gerbold. “I believe they might approach _us_.”

Gerbold stood alongside Lord Dar, Cor and Corin, deep in conversation. It was hard to notice any antagonism in such a celebratory environment, but Aravis did see a slight hint of discomfort under the surface of Gerbold’s smile that made her want to run and pull Cor away from those who sought to harm him.

But Edmund was right, of course. As soon as Cor finished his joke, Gerbold made his way over to the shade, bowing to Aravis and Edmund.

“This is truly a welcome surprise, King Edmund! We were not expecting Your Majesty until next week! Are your Royal Siblings here as well?”

“Not yet. I had my own visit to pay before the wedding celebrations begin,” Edmund replied smoothly, sharing a glance with Aravis. “Peter, Susan and Lucy should be arriving next week.”

“Ah, I see!” Gerbold looked as if he was only just noticing the two of them and how they stood together. “Well, perhaps congratulations will be due for you, as well?” He raised his glass towards them. “Lady Aravis, the glow of courtship suits you.”

She forced a smile. “Thank you, my Lord.”

Gerbold cleared his throat and turned to Edmund, lowering his voice. “I must say, it is nice to know that Narnia and Archenland continue to be so well allied. I have, as of late, feared that Anvard is less concerned with preserving our powerful alliances than with entertaining more fickle nations.”

So this was not a secretive bunch, Aravis realized with a jolt. If Gerbold was so openly entertaining these conversations—with the Lady of Anvard and a King of Narnia, no less!—then how many others had he spoken to already? How many in Anvard alone already held the same beliefs?

“I believe these weeks are to be a celebration of love, not politics,” Edmund said with a small smile, and Gerbold laughed. It made Aravis feel rather sick, but this was their task; to entertain and gather information.

But just as Gerbold opened his mouth to continue, Lord Kairn appeared at their side, overflowing with greetings. “King Edmund! What a gift for our celebrations! What news from Narnia?”

Silently cursing him for his interference, Aravis grit her teeth and mustered the brightest of smiles. “Lord Kairn, have you tried the absolutely _lovely_ grapes from Cair Paravel?”

Lord Kairn followed her enthusiastically. Behind him, there was a small commotion as Corin knocked over a glass of water in his hurry to stifle his laughter.

Having tried the grapes and quite a few of the much-too-dry pastries on the table, Lord Kairn wandered off once more, and Aravis watched from afar as Edmund and Gerbold continued to speak. Edmund did not look towards her; perhaps the conversation would be best served if she was not there.

“Tarkheena.”

There were very few who still called her that. For some, it was meant as an insult—to remind her that she did not belong. For others, such as Arrakh Tarkaan, it was simply a matter of courtesy, from one Calormene to another.

“Arrak Tarkaan,” she smiled at him. “How is Tehishbaan?”

“Boisterous as usual,” he replied, lips curling under his red-tinted beard. “But I am hardly ever there, these days. The North is where all business flows, nowadays. And I see you are on your way to making a valuable connection yourself.” He cocked his head in Edmund’s direction. “A very favorable match, if I may offer my opinion.”

She had never quite known what to make of Arrak. There were many Calormene traders like him who came and went from Archenland, and some were in good enough standing to be invited to such events. After all, trade with Calormen was still crucial for both countries’ survival, even in times of great distrust.

Even before knowing his involvement in this sinister scheme, however, Aravis would not have wanted Arrak’s relationship advice. Tarkaans always approached her with much too familiarity. But she would have to be gracious. “Thank you. He is unmatched in every way.”

“I remember him from when he visited in Calormen ten years ago. A clever, dignified man. It is a pity that alliance did not flourish, or we might have benefitted from his skills. As it is, Narnia’s magic continues to be utterly unreachable.”

People still spoke of Rabadash’s failed courtship of Queen Susan as a failed ‘alliance’; a severe understatement, but diplomatic enough to hold in awkward meetings between kingdoms. She wondered what Arrak was being offered to be involved in this scheme—or what he was offering on behalf of others.

“And you, Tarkheena—” Arrak looked into her eyes. “An untapped mine of gems under too many ignorant noses. Does Anvard satisfy you?” He picked up one of the pastries off the table and turned it over in his hand. “This is all pale stone, bland food and even blander people.”

Such truths on his mouth caused an unwelcome jolt through her spine. She did not want to have this conversation with him, of all people. But as she saw the ease with which the Tarkaan spoke of the subject—as if she were his niece, to whom he could give advice—the spark of an idea took hold.

“Esteemed Tarkhaan,” she said, lowering her voice and allowing her expression to grow more serious. “Clearly you and I have much to converse about.”

* * *

The guests did not leave until after supper, and so she did not have a chance to speak to Edmund alone until it was all over, sitting on benches in the now empty courtyard as servants carried the last of the tables away. Above them, the stars began to glitter and the wind grew cooler—just enough for Aravis to shiver slightly in her festive gown.

He offered her his cloak. She politely declined.

“I saw you speak to Arrak. I believe I had a similar conversation with Gerbold.” Edmund’s lips were pressed into a thin line. “We may be just what they need.”

“So we are traitors, now?” She felt a laugh escape her, born out of nerves and disbelief. “We will have to tell Cor.”

“Acting as a traitor comes naturally to me, I’m afraid.”

Aravis had forgotten about that part of the story—one that was often mostly glossed over in Queen Lucy’s retellings. “I sometimes wonder how much of it is truth, and how much of it is legend,” she admitted. “Perhaps embellished for the sake of Narnia.”

He turned to look at her, and there was both amusement and sadness in his eyes. “Oh, there is certainly embellishment. The truth was much more difficult; much more painful. And there were scars from before, as well. Aslan helped us forget many of what came before—but that does not mean they are gone.”

“I wanted to forget Calormen, at first,” she said, clasping her hands together, twisting her fingers and watching them so that she didn’t have to look at them. “It had only brought me pain, and so I wanted so badly to be of Archenland.” She sighed. “But there is a reason I am twenty-two and yet unmarried. My blood, my gender and my complexion bring me limited prospects in Archenland, none of which I care to take.”

She thought of her stepmother, thirty years younger than her father, her marriage negotiated by an uncaring family, her worth now defined solely by her servitude. _Women fade easily_. Aravis had thought the bitterness behind them was directed at her own rebellion, it occurred to her now that maybe she had nothing to do with it at all. Women were pushed to do desperate things to survive—to avoid displacement, be it from their husband’s mistress of even his beloved daughter.

There was so little afforded to women already that they often had to fight for what little they could have.

“Cor is excited for his marriage, as he should be. And Corin is buying a home further North—I suppose it would be nice to have somewhere like that to go.”

Edmund turned to look at her, his dark eyes bright in the darkness. “You should have more. Your skills are wasted like this.”

Aravis swallowed down the knot in her throat. “Arrak Tarkaan said the same.”

* * *

Two nights later, the conversation bore fruit. As couples filled the ballroom—not _quite_ as lavish as it would be in a week’s time, once Cor’s bride arrived, but certainly far from plain—Edmund took the opportunity to share the news with her as they danced.

“Gerbold has invited us to meet with them, two nights from now,” Edmund told her, pulling her closer as the music swelled. He was a good dancer, if a little stiffer in the shoulders than Cor or Corin.

“In private?”

“Just the three of them, apparently.”

She frowned, then quickly tilted her face down so others would not see her expression. “We have already confirmed that they are plotting something. We can have them all arrested right now.”

“We need to know the plan. They may have issued orders already.”

Foreboding twisted itself into Aravis’ stomach. To attend a private meeting with three confirmed traitors… “It could be a trap.”

“I’m quite confident that they trust us,” Edmund said. “Or at the very least, Arrak trusts that you resent Archenland, and they believe my history.”

“No one thinks of you as a traitor.”

Edmund looked down at her, then, and smiled. “You are a good liar, Aravis. That’s why I’m not worried.”

* * *

The meeting felt far from sinister, in fact. Aravis sat beside Edmund at a table laden with delicious food, across from Lord Imdallen and Arrak Tarkaan, and with Lord Gerbold at the head of the table. There was much wine and jokes, but the tension in the air was undeniable.

“You must forgive Lord Imdallen for his silence,” Gerbold chuckled. “I believe he has not seen his King in such close quarters before.”

“I can assure you that I am a reasonable person, my Lord,” Edmund told his subject with a smile. “And I remember every face. We shall see each other often in Narnia, I hope.”

If it was a threat, it was spoken so warmly that no one would have noticed it. Aravis smiled along with the others and continued to pretend to eat—her fingers mercifully steady despite her nerves. 

“We are a unique group, as you can see, Sire,” Imdallen explained. “You are seeing the work of many years. Three kingdoms represented—many different lives and interests in between. You are our first honored guests.”

“And we are grateful for the invitation.”

“What my colleague means to say,” Gerbold interjected. “Is that some in Narnia and Archenland might find our views rather… extreme. I confess that I, myself, would not have believed that you would have any interest in our views until Arrak mentioned his conversation with Lady Aravis.”

They all looked to her, clearly expecting her to speak. Aravis smiled warmly and drew from that same fierce energy that had helped her through the conversation with Arrak. “I know you all to be good men, with the best interests of your countries in mind. Like you, I too enjoy seeing beyond borders—understanding that loyalty is more than simply submission. Progress thrives in the hands of those who think further.”

“Aye aye,” Gerbold crowed. “It is refreshing to know that there are such forward thinking people in our courts. And yet, how much better it would be if you were the ones to make the decisions!” He turned to Edmund. “Were the tides to change, Sire… I think you would make a magnificent King for both Narnia _and_ Archenland.”

Aravis could feel, in her heart, the rage that must have risen in Edmund at those words—but he hid it well. “That would certainly be a controversial statement for some ears,” he said, but a hint of a smile appeared on his lips.

“You are diplomatic to the end, Sire,” Imdallen said with a grin.

“These are entertaining ideas,” Edmund said, leaning back in his seat and looking around at the three men. “But these are not realistic circumstances.”

“You might be surprised,” Arrak Tarkaan said, raising an eyebrow. “Coups happen all the time—in the silence between nightfall and the rising moon. Such a night may come perhaps as soon as tomorrow.”

“And if it does,” Gerbold said, his tone still casual. “We would be pleased to know that you could take the reins to avoid this country falling into chaos.”

Edmund said something noncommittal that Aravis could not hear with the blood rushing through her ears, but even through his smile she saw the look he gave her, confirming her suspicions. They planned to kill Cor—the week before his wedding.

* * *

Cor was alerted, of course, and during the day he was surrounded by twice the usual number of guards, as well as some of Edmund’s Ravens. He vowed to eat or drink nothing at the banquet that night, and Lord Dar—the head of his Guard—watched every person entering the castle with eagle eyes.

Gerbold, Arrak and Imdallen were present at the banquet, of course—two out of the three with their wives and children, even, which Aravis supposed served to convey the innocent appearance they wished to keep. Edmund sat at Aravis’ side, as courtship rituals demanded, and showered her with small gifts of jewelry and berries—as was Narnian custom—all the while watching the crowd out of the corner of his eye.

It was already dark outside, and Aravis could feel her terror for Cor’s life in her bones. The guards were already poised to arrest Gerbold, Arrak and Imdallen – but she didn’t think they would be the ones to carry out the murder, anyway.

“It’s strange, the way Arrak phrased it,” she told Edmund in a whisper that she hoped looked romantic to the onlookers. She could see his pulse just over the corner of his collar. “ _In the silence between nightfall and the rising moon.”_

His voice, from this close, sounded deeper to her than usual. “I assumed it was Calormene poetry.”

“It is,” Aravis said. “And I’ve heard it before. But it was an odd thing to say—it’s from an old song about Ilsombreh Tisroc’s life, not something anyone ever cites in conversation to make a point.”

There was a sudden scream from outside, and everyone in the room turned to look at the door. A red glare shone through the windows—a familiar, foreboding color that could only mean—

“Fire!” someone shouted. “Fire in the castle!”

Cor was already on his feet, Dar and the rest of his Guard pushing him to leave the building. The fire was clearly real, but the circumstances were much too suspicious. The three men at the table looked surprised but not shaken enough; they simply followed the crowd as it moved towards the doors to escape.

Edmund clearly thought the same thing as she did, and got up to follow Cor, a hand on the sword at his side. Aravis could already hear the servants rushing towards the fire with buckets of water. It had to be a part of the plot. A fire in the stables was perhaps believable—but one so close to the castle?

And just like that, the verse suddenly became obvious. _In the silence between nightfall and the rising moon._ The time that Ilsombreh Tisroc had been defeated by his traitorous cousin; not by killing the Tisroc, but b y killing the head of his Guard and replacing him—all in the space of an hour.

 _It’s not a plan to kill Cor_ , she realized suddenly. _It’s a plan to kill Dar and replace him with Gerbold_.

And so, even as Edmund followed Cor with sword in hand, Aravis seized a knife from the table and sprinted towards the fire, weaving through the shocked crowd . The guards had scattered across the lawn, looking up at a fire that had erupted in one of the adjoining buildings, and even as Dar gave his men orders, a dark figure approached behind him, out of Dar’s eyesight—but not out of Aravis’.

She dashed towards him and, just as the man reached for Dar, plunged the dinner knife into the assassin’s arm.

* * *

When it was all over, and Dar marched Gerbold, Imdallen and Arrak to the dungeons—an act that she suspected, deep down, would require many carefully-written letters to Tehishbaan—Aravis found Edmund in a nearby corridor, hand still on the hilt of his sword. He looked exhausted beyond measure.

Aravis, however, felt more exhilarated than ever; relief and horror at the blood mixing with the remnants of her previous terror to form a potent cocktail within her mind.

“You did an incredible job,” Edmund told her with a tired smile—but there was a ruefulness even in his dignified posture that she couldn’t quite understand. Perhaps he recognized the question in her eyes, because he looked away. “My miscalculation almost cost Cor his life. This traitor role almost became real a second time.”

Aravis stared at him in disbelief, and then sudden clarity. “Is that why you came to Anvard on your own, to resolve this?” she asked. “You know you did not _invent_ betrayals, right?”

“You don’t understand,” he said. His jaw clenched. “This is my responsibility. I brought betrayal into Narnia when we first arrived. I looked into the Lion’s eyes—”

“You were punished already.”

He looked at her in askance.

“In Calormen, they used to say this of Tash— _his punishment is harsh and swift, that from nothing you may rise again._ I know how Aslan is spoken of in Narnia, but I met Him, too.” She reached for the lace behind her dress and unwove it swiftly, opening it just enough to expose the angry white scars that still traced both sides of her spine.

Edmund stared at them, wide-eyed, and then into her eyes as Aravis covered her back once more, too exhilarated to be ashamed.

“The Lion is merciful,” she said. “And _mercy_ is not to leave you burdened with decades of guilt. Mercy is to issue punishment, that you may accept yourself and move on. Did He punish you?”

Edmund looked away, his eyes suddenly shining with unshed tears. “He did.”

“Then this is no longer your burden to carry.” She took his hand, wrapping his fingers tightly in her own. “You are not a reformed traitor; you are a King.”

Edmund looked down at their hands, at their intertwined fingers. His thumb brushed over hers—warm, welcoming, slightly rough. And he did not say anything more, but for the first time in a very long time, she felt that sudden urge to press closer to a person—to whisper something she did not even know how to articulate. To see where that took them.

She had imagined herself married before—but never to a man like this one. And suddenly, the charade felt like a dangerously attractive fantasy to entertain.

* * *

He left for Narnia early the next morning, along with Corvix and the other Ravens. They would return in a few days along with the rest of the Narnian party, to properly enjoy a stay at Anvard away from any murderous plots.

But he seemed almost reluctant to leave, exchanging niceties with Aravis, Cor and Corin despite the early hour—and the way his gaze kept meeting hers made her follow him to his horse; something she previously would have done to keep up appearances, but that she now couldn’t have stopped herself from doing.

Edmund offered her a scroll with a small smile. “I wanted to propose an idea.”

Her heart pounding, she took it from him, the tips of her fingers grazing his hand, all the thoughts she had had the previous night rushing back to her brain.

“It is an invitation,” he said, watching her as she unrolled it. “To—with the blessing of King Cor, of course—train either with our Royal Guard or in my own entourage.”

 _Oh_ , she thought, and to her surprise the warmth that spread through her at the idea was tinged with a small line of dismay. She had thought, perhaps, on this day of all days…

“Thank you,” she was able to muster. “This is—"

“Less than you deserve. But perhaps a step towards some manner of freedom.” Their gazes met, and he reached for her hand again, tentatively, as if she might pull it away at any moment. She was reminded again of how commanding his presence could be—and how incredibly gentle he could be in contrast.

“I dare not dare make any other offers,” he said in a low voice, his hand gentle and his face tilted down towards hers. “Lest they change your mind about the first, or be too presumptuous of me. Above all else, I want you to be happy. But if you wish to write me—” a sliver of a smile made its way onto his face. “There is nothing that would bring me greater joy.”

And raising her hand to his lips, Edmund turned and mounted his horse, riding away in a cloud of ravens; leaving her shivering in the dawn air with a mouth full of words she could not find a way to express.

* * *

Cor made the announcement at breakfast, marking a beginning and an end.

“She boarded the ship this morning—she should be arriving in three days.”

“I’m very happy for you, Cor,” Aravis said, and she did mean it. “I think you’ll both bring a lot of joy to Anvard. And I think people will come around to it quickly; she’s charming and beautiful, and they’ll find nothing to criticize.”

“I hope so,” he said. “I know she’ll learn a lot from you.”

Aravis tried to keep her face perfectly expressionless. “I’ll be happy to guide her.”

“Only when you have time,” Cor said. “We’ll manage.”

She tried not to read into his words too much, or to allow her feelings—now compounded with the confusion of Edmund’s morning goodbye—to overwhelm her as much as they threatened to. Trapped between the breakfast table and her chair, she breathed in and out and tried, as always, to rid herself of her unwelcome thoughts.

“Are you going to do it now?” Corin asked suddenly. He was looking at Cor with a grin on his face. Aravis suddenly realized that Cor, too, was smiling.

Extending an arm over the food between them, Cor passed her a scroll.

“What is it?”

“A deed,” he said. She looked down at the document in confusion. “Now, this doesn’t have to be a place to live, or anything like that. You can keep it as a place to visit, or entertain guests, or just forget all about it. We love having you near us—both because you’re very good at everything you do, and because we love you.” He took a breath. “But I know Anvard isn’t the kindest of homes sometimes, and that you likely have ambitions beyond just making life more comfortable for me—”

“I’m _happy_ , Cor.”

“I know,” he said, waving his hand. “And I love you for it. But I also know that I would be remiss, as your fellow childhood adventurer and partner-in-crime, _and_ as your King, if I didn’t give you the opportunity to be more than that. To travel—”

“—to ride and fight on your own property, without judgement—”

“—to have guests in a property of your own, away from the pressures of royalty—"

“—to spend valuable time with a lover—”

They both grinned at her.

She felt her cheeks grow warm. “I don’t—”

“I wouldn’t presume to pressure you to marry a King of Narnia,” Cor said, eyebrows raised. “But as men go, he’s probably one of the few I think would be worthy of you.”

“We’re not—”

“ _Yet_ ,” Corin said, wiggling his eyebrows. “But don’t act coy about it, Aravis. Look at the deed.”

She did. “This is in the Northern ridges.”

“Less than a day’s ride from Cair Paravel, and the same distance from here.”

“This is the property you were looking at. You can’t give this to _me_!”

“Well _I’m_ not going to live in it,” Corin laughed. “I can’t bear to be away from the city, I’d be bored to death. I was looking at it for _you_.”

“We don’t want you to feel chained here, Aravis,” Cor said. “We want you to do what makes you happy with the people that you want. And at the end of the day, we’ll always be here as your family—whether you choose to live with us, or visit us, or even if you just send letters—as long as you eventually _do_ come see us.”

She looked down at the scroll, not really believing her eyes. The prospects that opened up in front of her were strange and unfamiliar, but exhilarating in so many different ways. And that they had known all along, that they had taken steps to ensure her happiness…

“Thank you,” she choked out. “I really—I didn’t think—”

The boys stood up and came to hug her. Engulfed in their large frames—now so much different from the scrawny children they had once been—she oddly felt taller and more present than ever, a deed in hand and the possibilities of the world at her fingertips.

“Now,” Cor said with a grin. “Go write a letter to that King of yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to WingedFlight for the incredible last-minute beta, and to Rafael for the late-night brainstorming!


End file.
